


Down in the ground

by Coriaria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Dark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Illness, Mental Institutions, Violence, general nastiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriaria/pseuds/Coriaria
Summary: “I’m not the only dead man in here, Harry. In fact, there’s so many of us, this place should be called a cemetery. Once you are here, generally your family doesn’t discuss you any more. No wizard wants to admit they have a relative who is insane. Easier to say we are dead.”





	1. Ward One

Harry Potter was never able to remember how it was, exactly, he had got from the Weasley’s kitchen to the Vecordia Mortifer Asylum for the Dangerously Insane. He could remember the latest explosive Wizarding Wheeze startling Fleur as she carried an enormous plate of roast potatoes, crashing crockery, shrieking, and Bill getting into a row with George. Then he remembered seeing fragments of the final battle, Snape with his throat torn apart, Molly wailing over Fred’s body, Remus and Tonks laid out side by side, glowing red eyes fixed on him and an overwhelming sense of rage. He vaguely remembered Arthur’s calm voice and the shrill tones of a hysterical St Mungo’s healer. Then he was lying in a darkened room, on a floor which appeared to be softened with cushioning charms, with only a blanket, a pillow and a plastic basin for company.

He didn’t care, of course. It had been months since he’d cared – maybe longer, as he didn’t really keep track of time. After the war ended, he’d been carried along on the euphoria and relief for a while. But somehow it had slipped away. The old thoughts came back, the old doubts, the nagging sense of failure, the vague dread that things were going to go wrong and, most of all, the clawing fear of losing those he loved. The love of Harry Potter was a curse. Every time he looked at Ginny, he wondered when it would take her. The people he loved were always taken from him. His parents, Sirius, Albus, Remus. Even, in a strange way, Snape, the faithful guardian of his mother’s memory.

He’d hated Snape, of course. Hated him for years. But now he grieved for him as deeply as if he’d loved him. Perhaps it was the memories, those miserable memories, which had made him realise just how much he had in common with his angry, bitter teacher. One, in particular, he couldn’t drive from his mind. It wasn’t the most horrific, not by far, but it struck him as the saddest. The boy Snape, perhaps seven or eight, had been looking up at a sour-faced woman, clutching his arm to his body as if in pain. His body shook slightly, as if he was crying.

“Control your emotions, you weak, pathetic boy” she had said. The distaste on her face reminded Harry of Petunia Dursley, but her tone of voice was the tone that Snape had used to torment his students in Potions class.

Snape, Harry concluded, had never stood a chance.

As the memory overwhelmed him again, Harry pulled the blanket towards himself, clutching it to his chest as he had one of Dudley’s hand-me-down jumpers as a child. He’d pretended the jumper was a teddy bear and cuddled it every night. Now he sought that same comfort, holding the scratchy warmth of the blanket in his arms as he felt the familiar choking rise in his throat and the tears came once more.

…

There were shoes in front of his face. Harry moved his hand around until he felt his glasses, and the shoes came into focus. They were solid, sensible beige shoes, poking out from a set of healer’s robes, topped by a round face and curly hair that reminded him of a younger Professor Sprout.

“Hello there, Mr Famous Boy-who-lived Potter. We seem to be looking rather sorry for ourselves today. Whatever seems to be the matter?”

The voice that spoke had a forced cheeriness to it that grated on Harry’s nerves. He closed his eyes.

“Don’t be like that now. It’s not often we get someone so famous here. A real hero and celebrity. We’re all ever so keen to meet you.”

He opened his eyes again. Perhaps it was his mood, but he found her words ominous rather than reassuring.

“That’s better. Now, up you get. Can’t have you dallying in here. Get changed, and you can go through to the ward.”

Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position and the healer handed him a stack of clothing.

“Come on, now.”

She stood watching, tapping her foot occasionally.

“Do I get some privacy?” Harry asked, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze.

“Privacy must be earned, Mr Potter,” the healer replied sharply.

Harry turned his back and undressed, before pulling on the provided underwear, trousers and shirt, all grey. He was sure he could feel the healer’s eyes on him, although another part of his mind told him he was being paranoid.

“What about my clothes?” he asked, clutching his jumper, hand-knitted by Molly Weasley, to his chest.

“Behave well, Mr Potter, and your own clothing will be returned to you. Right down to those rather fetching red underpants. Now, come along.”

Harry felt his face go scarlet and followed the healer out of the door.

\--

They entered a long corridor with tiny rooms off either side. Harry didn’t look too closely until the healer stopped outside one room.

“This is yours, Mr Potter.”

Harry stepped in, noticing a grubby-looking mattress, a pillow and a blanket. There was a single shelf, with another set of clothing and pyjamas.

“You will keep it neat and tidy, Mr Potter. That is one of our rules. It’s important to maintain a sense of order. Follow the rules, you will be rewarded—for example, getting your clothes back, being allowed to close the door to your room, access to books, and such like. I can even…”

The healer cleared her throat and Harry looked up at her for a moment.

“I can even get you into the women’s ward. Plenty of willing ladies there.”

Harry felt slightly sick as the healer raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Right then, let’s show you the rest of the ward.”

Suddenly businesslike again, the healer turned and walked from the room. Harry looked longingly at the mattress for a moment. He really didn’t feel like a guided tour. But on the other hand, he was pretty sure it wasn’t a good idea to go against the healer.

He followed meekly as she walked along the corridor, prattling in her fake cheerful voice. He paid little attention until they came to a large room, and she stopped suddenly.

“Everyone, look what we have here. Mr Harry Potter.”

Suddenly, Harry felt every pair of eyes in the room on him. There was a murmuring of indistinct voices. He saw two other healers walk up, as well as several patients.

“Fancy the great Harry Potter in our little hospital. What an honour indeed. I’m sure we are so overwhelmed that we don’t know what to do with ourselves.”

The voice which spoke was cold as ice. Harry glanced up to see a blonde healer giving him a venomous glare.

“Oh, Rufus, don’t be silly,” said the original healer.

Several of the patients had walked up close to him and began to touch him. One or two murmured his name as they pawed at his clothing. One man sank to the floor and wrapped his arms around Harry’s leg. Harry tried to pull away but the man gripped tighter. His hair was matted and his clothing filthy.

“Please, please,” the man begged as Harry felt panic rise within him.

Suddenly, the third healer stepped forward and pointed his wand to the man’s back. The man gave a jerk and released Harry’s leg with a whimper of pain.

“Oi, Black, there’ll be none of that,” the healer snarled.

“S… sorry, I’m sorry, Senior Healer MacNair,” the man whined.

Senior Healer MacNair gave him a sharp kick in the ribs.

“I’ll see that you are, Black.”

The tall healer then dealt with the other patients who had their hands on Harry in a similar fashion.

“No dignity at all,” MacNair said to Harry.

“Thanks, but that wasn’t…” Harry replied.

“Thank you, Senior Healer MacNair,” the original healer snapped back. “You’ll mind your manners here.”

“Thank you, Senior Healer MacNair,” Harry said. His mind was racing. Senior Healer MacNair. That couldn’t be good, surely.

“At all times you are to refer to healers by their title. If you don’t know their name, Healer will suffice. But so you don’t have this excuse, this is Healer Lockhart.”

The blonde healer moved his head slightly.

“And you’ve already met Healer Umbridge.”

Harry dropped his head.

“Thank you, Senior Healer MacNair, thank you, Healer Umbridge.”

This was definitely not good.

\--

Harry slowly adjusted to the routine of the ward. He would be woken, far too early, by Healer Umbridge’s fake cheery voice. On a couple of mornings he was too slow to rise, and she hurled a series of stinging hexes through the door. After that, he made sure he was up quickly. He would carry his clothing through to the bathroom, then wash and dress under her watchful eye. After a few days of polite compliance, he was given a towel and allowed to use the shower, and after a week he was given a toothbrush.

Meals were served in the main room of the ward. Patients were expected to sit at the table and eat neatly, although they had only spoons. Anyone who spilled their food would be dragged from their seat by Healer MacNair and forced to lick their food from the floor. Several of the patients didn’t even bother to try and eat at the table. The man who had clutched Harry’s leg would snatch a piece of toast and sit in a corner, muttering as he ate. MacNair would glare at him, but leave him alone.

The time between meals was near-constant boredom, punctuated only by random brutality inflicted on any patient who stepped out of line. There were old issues of the Daily Prophet, some tattered books and a couple of decks of cards, neither complete. On the first morning, Harry hadn’t felt like company anyway, so had retreated to his room and flopped down on the mattress, staring at the wall.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Harry turned to see a red-headed man leaning against the door frame. He was clearly a patient, from his grey clothing, but there was a clarity in his gaze which made Harry wonder who he was and what he was doing in the asylum.

“What do you mean?”

“Lying around in your room during the day isn’t recommended,” the man said. “Come on.”

He stepped into the room and Harry cringed away. The man ignored it and offered his hand.

“I’m Gideon,” he said.

Harry took his hand rather uncertainly and Gideon pulled him to his feet.

“Come back into the main room, and we can talk,” he said, grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him from the room. About halfway down the corridor, Harry noticed Healer Lockhart, his cold blue eyes following Harry as he walked by.

Gideon pushed Harry into a sofa and sat down beside him.

“Harry,” Gideon said softly, “it’s not a good idea to isolate yourself here. You need to try and make sure you are never alone with Healer Lockhart. You’re not exactly his type, but you are young and famous, so he’s sure to go for you.”

Harry looked at Gideon for a moment, blinking in confusion. Then he felt a cold knot forming in his stomach.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Well, exactly,” Gideon said.

\--

Gideon turned out to be Gideon Prewett, one of Molly Weasley’s brothers.

“But you’re dead,” Harry said, perhaps louder than was wise, because Gideon shushed him.

“I’m not the only dead man in here, Harry. In fact, there’s so many of us, this place should be called a cemetery. Once you are here, generally your family doesn’t discuss you any more. No wizard wants to admit they have a relative who is insane. Easier to say we are dead.”

“But… when you are released, what’s everyone going to say then?”

Gideon’s face looked a little sad.

“I won’t be released, Harry. Coming to the Vecordia Mortifer Asylum is a one-way journey. Just like the cemetery.”

Harry sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to absorb what Gideon had said. Did that mean he was in here forever? He glanced up and saw Healer Lockhart across the room, cold blue eyes on Harry. He was going to be stuck in here, trying to avoid Healer Lockhart forever?

“It’s not so bad, Harry.”

Harry turned and stared. He’d thought Gideon seemed quite sane until that point. 

“Look, once you get used to it, it’s possible to have a reasonably decent life in here. Basically, stay away from Lockhart, don’t annoy MacNair, and do a few favours for Umbridge and the other healers, and you’ll be okay. Just don’t, whatever you do, end up in Ward Two.”

Harry continued staring at Gideon.

“I can see you aren’t quite ready to accept this, Harry,” Gideon said, patting him on the shoulder. I know it’s a shock and you probably aren’t feeling all that great right now, if you’ve ended up in here. But there’s a few of us who aren’t so mad, and we’ll do what we can to look after you. No guarantees, though. We can’t work miracles.”

Gideon gave Harry another pat on the shoulder and left him to curl up on the sofa, ignoring everyone in the room until he was called to lunch.

\--

In some ways, Gideon was right. Harry washed, kept his room tidy and ate without making a mess. That was enough to make most of the healers leave him alone. Between meals, he’d curl up in a chair and stare at the wall, knowing that Gideon was keeping an eye out. Often, an elderly wizard would sit down next to him. He seldom spoke, except to pat Harry on the back or arm and say, “It will be alright, boy”. Gideon told him that the man was Victor Burbage, father of Charity, and that he’d ended up at the asylum after his daughter’s death. Victor moved slowly and spent nearly as many hours staring at the wall as Harry.

The man who had clung to Harry’s leg the first day took to following Harry around.

“He’s alright, Harry,” Gideon told him. “Regulus won’t hurt you.”

Harry gaped, remembering MacNair’s words on his first day.

“Regulus Black? But…”

Harry stared at the dark-haired man then back at Gideon.

“I know, another supposedly dead man,” Gideon said. “I did tell you there were a few here.”

Harry took a slow breath.

“Oh, oh Merlin. His brother was my godfather. I can’t believe he knew. He’d never have left his brother in here. Surely?”

Gideon shrugged.

“Hard to know. It’s a pretty old tradition, pretending your insane relatives are dead. And wizards are nothing if not traditional.”

“But Sirius was in Azkaban. Maybe he never knew?”

“It’s possible, Harry. I just can’t say.”

After following him for a few days, Regulus took to sitting on the floor beside Harry. He would poke his finger at Harry’s foot until Harry patted his head or shoulder. Then he’d rest his head against Harry and sit there making faint humming noises. After a while, Harry found it rather comforting.

Harry made sure he was never alone if he could avoid it. He noticed that there were a couple of men that Healer Lockhart seemed to target. One was blonde, with pale blue empty eyes. The other, unfortunately, was Regulus. Healer Lockhart would walk up to one of them and pull them by their hair. They would follow meekly down the corridor to the bedrooms.

“Can’t we do something?”

Gideon shook his head.

“They can do what they want to us. The other healers will back them up. Just try and keep your head down and hope he decides you are too much effort.”

It couldn’t last, of course.

One morning, instead of Healer Umbridge, he heard Healer Lockhart’s voice calling him to wake up. Before he could move, Lockhart had opened his door and entered his room, flicking the door shut with his wand as he moved closer to the mattress.

“Harry, Harry, I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me.”

Harry shook his head.

“No, Healer Lockhart, sir.”

“I think you are, Harry. I think that nasty Prewett boy’s been spreading rumours about me. What’s he been telling you? Has he been telling tales?”

Lockhart raised his wand and stroked it down the side of Harry’s face.

“I don’t mean any harm, Harry. I just thought you might like to have some fun. Would you like to have some fun with me, Harry?”

Lockhart continued to stroke Harry’s face with his wand, while his other hand tugged at the waistband of Harry’s pyjama pants. Harry pulled away, but found himself pinned against the wall with the healer breathing in his face.

“Don’t be like that, Harry. Don’t make me force you. Or do you like to play rough? Is that it? You want me to play rough?”

Suddenly Harry felt the healer yank his hair and found his face buried in the man’s groin. He could feel himself begin to shake with fear, but another part of him was enraged. He thought of the resigned look on the face of Regulus when Lockhart dragged him away. He wasn’t going to be like that, wasn’t going to be the man’s victim.

He struggled, feeling rage rise within him. For a few moments, it simply seemed to arouse Lockhart more, but then the man jerked away cursing.

Harry dared a glance, and saw that the man’s fingers were beginning to swell, then his chest and face. It was the same accidental magic he’d used on his uncle’s sister all those years ago. For a moment, he felt rather pleased with himself, before the furious healer pointed his wand at Harry and everything went black.


	2. Ward Two

When Harry woke, the first thing he noticed was his pounding head. The second thing he noticed was an awful smell. Harry felt his stomach churn and, before he could do anything about it, he was retching. When he was finished, he opened his eyes to find the world dim and blurry, and groped around for his glasses. Only then did he realise his right hand was chained to the wall.

That woke him up quickly enough. Harry pushed himself into a sitting position with his left hand and peered at the blur which surrounded him. He could tell that he was in a large, dimly lit room, but not much else. On the other hand, the sounds told him quite a bit. There was moaning and muttering, eerie wails, the rattling of chains and, when the other noises quietened a bit, a soft crying. Assuming he hadn’t died and gone to Hell, there was only one place he could be. Ward Two.

Gideon had told him about Ward Two. As long has Harry behaved, he’d probably be allowed to stay in Ward One. But if he misbehaved too much, or proved dangerous, he could be moved to Ward Two. If he was lucky, it would just be a temporary stay. If not, he could spend his life there, chained to the wall with the maddest of the mad.

Harry heard footsteps enter the ward and shrank back against the wall. He knew those footsteps. Senior Healer MacNair. Gideon had told him that MacNair was in charge of both wards.

“Merlin, you lot are a pack of filthy beasts, aren’t you. Scourgify.”

Harry felt the cleaning spell move over him as if he was being scrubbed with a giant brush. He smelled soap in his nose and felt bubbles force their way into his mouth. He felt like he would choke, but then the bubbles were gone and he collapsed on the floor. Mercifully, the foul smell of the ward was gone.

The footsteps moved over to where Harry lay.

“Potter, I see you’re awake.”

Harry pushed himself up and looked up at the blurry figure.

“Yes, Senior Healer MacNair.”

“Welcome to Ward Two, Potter. This is what you get for attacking one of the healing staff.”

“Yes, Senior Healer MacNair.”

“Behaving yourself now, Potter. Probably a bit late for that.”

Harry was silent for a moment.

“Senior Healer MacNair, I was wondering whether I might have my glasses?”

There was a long pause.

“No,” MacNair said eventually. Harry gave a yelp of pain as the healer’s boot connected with his groin. He curled himself into a ball and cried as he listened to the retreating steps.

\--

The soapy smell left by MacNair’s scourgify didn’t last. Ward Two appeared to have no toilet facilities. Harry found a filthy plastic basin which he used, but it appeared that most of the inmates didn’t bother. The elderly man on one side of him never moved from his chair and presumably simply went to the toilet where he sat. As far as Harry could tell, the man on the other side never moved at all.

Ward Two lacked the routine of Ward One. There was nobody who bothered to wake them in the morning, nobody who took them to wash, no table to sit at for meals. At irregular intervals, maybe twice a day, trays appeared with food and water. A couple of unchained inmates would go and pick up the trays, delivering them to the chained inmates, or those that couldn’t be bothered moving. Harry watched them picking through the food on the trays before they were delivered. The men helped themselves to anything particularly appetising.

After a couple of days, Harry realised that the smell was getting worse, much worse. Harry remembered the dead ferrets that Hagrid and Sirius used to feed to Buckbeak. Left too long without a preserving charm, they smelled a little like the ward. But the ward was much stronger.

Harry edged closer to the figure next to him who never moved. The smell got stronger. He poked his bare foot cautiously at the figure. It didn’t move, and the skin against his toe was cold.

“Healer Taylor, Healer Taylor!”

Harry called out to the healer who sat in the corner of the ward. Apart from MacNair, he appeared to be the only staff member, despite there being at least twenty men in the ward. Healer Taylor did almost nothing, just sitting in his chair and reading the paper or a book.

“Shut up, Potter,” Taylor replied.

“But Healer Taylor…”

“If you don’t shut up, you filthy mongrel, I’ll silence you myself.”

Harry doubted the man would bother. He was a lazy, negligent man and casting a silencing spell seemed like more effort than he’d be willing to make.

“Healer Taylor, I think the man next to me is dead.”

The door swung open and MacNair walked in. He strode over to the body next to Harry and began to prod it with the toe of his boot.

“Frank, you slovenly little shit,” MacNair yelled, before turning to Harry and kicking him in the ribs.

Healer Taylor scuttled over. He reminded Harry of Peter Pettigrew.

“It looks to me like this man starved to death. You’re supposed to ensure that the inmates eat, you idiot. Have you just been ignoring them again.”

“But, Verner…” Taylor whined.

“I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. Take the corpse to the crematorium and see it doesn’t happen again.”

MacNair stormed from the ward, pausing only to shoot a few hexes at the inmates he passed on the way out. Harry flattened himself against the wall, as far from the body as he could get. He’d noticed the man didn’t touch his food, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that he was dying, or dead. He felt ill. The man had been wasting away and Harry had done nothing. What sort of awful person was he?

\--

Harry’s manacle was undone the following day and he was free to move around the ward. Nonetheless he didn’t really feel like it. He curled up on his mattress and stared at nothing, moving only to eat and go to the toilet. He began to miss Healer Umbridge taking him for his daily wash. He didn’t like the way she looked at him – even less so once he found out about the “favours” Gideon did to get his various privileges – but at least she did her job. Healer Taylor seldom even bothered to cast a scourgify over the ward. But more than washing or proper toilets, the thing Harry missed most was his glasses.

He started to wonder what favour he could do for Healer Taylor. His mind wandered in directions he didn’t want to consider, before he finally came up with something sensible.

“Healer Taylor, sir, may I speak with you?” he said in his most polite tone.

“Piss off, boy, I’m busy.”

The healer turned the page of his Quibbler.

“Healer Taylor, sir, I think I might be able to help you out.”

The man dropped his paper and looked at Harry.

“Want something, do you?”

“My glasses, Healer Taylor, sir. I really can’t see a thing without them. I thought… well, I could help feed the patients who don’t eat much, sir. So we don’t have a repeat of… um…”

The healer tilted his head slightly as he regarded Harry, before finally nodding.

\--

The glasses made an immediate difference. Harry felt almost human again. He found he had enough energy to move around the ward and see which of the inmates might need help with eating.

The elderly man beside him was able to eat, but his hand shook and he spilled a lot of his food. Harry crouched beside his chair, trying to ignore the smell of stale urine, and spoke to him as the man attempted to bring a spoonful of stew to his mouth.

“Sir, would you like me to help you with that? It seems like you might be having some trouble.”

The man frowned at him.

“Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“I don’t think so, sir. But my name’s Harry Potter. Um…”

“That’s a familiar name, too. Maybe I do know you. I get confused though.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

The man frowned again, bushy eyebrows drawing together. After a while, he looked at Harry in confusion.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Oh, I… I’m afraid I can’t quite recall. And your name, young man? What’s your name?”

Harry sighed and repeated his name. Then he gently took the spoon and began feeding the man his stew. The old man seemed to be relieved at not having to feed himself, and thanked Harry politely when he’d finished.

Harry moved on to a man who was chained to the wall with both hands. The food tray was out of his reach and all Harry needed to do was push the tray closer, and the man did the rest.

The next man had an immense mat of grey-brown hair and a beard that fell to his waist. His mouth was a dark cavern and Harry realised that he had almost no teeth. His hands weren’t chained but they seemed to be damaged in some way, perhaps with arthritis.

“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Harry asked, pushing the tray closer.

The man stared at him blankly.

Harry mashed a piece of bread into the sauce of the stew and offered a spoonful to the man. The mouth opened and the man leaned closer, breathing his rotten breath in Harry’s face. He took the food off the spoon and then gave Harry a gummy smile. He spoke – for a moment Harry thought it was nonsense but then he realised it was another language, maybe Russian or something Eastern European.

“Dobro?” Harry said, the only word he could remember from any language from the area.

The man gave an even bigger smile and said something else to Harry that he couldn’t understand. Harry continued mashing up the food then feeding it to the man, who continued to speak to Harry as if he could understand. When the food and water was finished, the man looked Harry in the eye and said, “Dobro, dobro”.

\--

There was one other man who hadn’t touched his meal. He wasn’t chained, simply appearing too apathetic to eat. It took Harry some time to get him to cooperate, but eventually he accepted some food and drink.

When the man had eaten half of his food and clearly intended to eat no more, Harry stood up and began moving towards the darkest corner of the ward. Before he’d taken two steps, a hand closed firmly around his ankle. He staggered forward, but managed to stop himself from falling.

“Don’t,” hissed the man who hadn’t made a sound in the time Harry had been passing him food.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t,” the man repeated.

Harry looked towards the dark corner. There was a rather large space surrounding the man who sat there. Both his hands and feet were in manacles and around his neck was a stout collar, also chained to the wall. His eyes had a yellow gleam despite the darkness.

“Is he dangerous?” Harry asked. So far none of the inmates had appeared particularly dangerous, at least not as dangerous as the staff.

The man didn’t reply but stayed holding his ankle.

“He’s a werewolf,” came another voice.

Harry turned and saw the neighbour of the man who held his ankle watching him. He wasn’t certain, but it looked like one of the men who distributed the food trays.

“It’s not the full moon,” Harry said, a little defensively, thinking of Remus Lupin. “Just because he’s a werewolf doesn’t make him dangerous when he’s not transformed.”

“Well, this one has the mind of the wolf all the time. So yes, he is dangerous. But if you don’t believe me, feel free to wander up and have a chat. You’ll learn quickly enough.”

The man turned his back on Harry and returned to playing cards with another unchained man. When he realised the man had nothing more to add, Harry looked again into the dark corner.

The man with the werewolf’s mind was now investigating his dinner tray. He sniffed it cautiously before licking up some of the stew. Appearing to find that satisfactory, he continued to eat. When he finally lifted his head, his scraggly beard was coated with stew. He sat back, legs apart and bent slightly, and began to scrape the food from his beard and eat it. Harry realised then that he was completely naked.

Cautiously, Harry moved closer. The man did look insane, but he didn’t look dangerous. His body was thin, covered in scars and filth. His hair and beard were a matted grey-brown mass. Harry could see little of his face.

When Harry was within a couple of metres of the man, he realised that his yellow eyes were watching intently.

“Hello,” Harry said.

The man went still. Harry took another step. The man gave a low growl. Harry paused and reached out a hand, even though he wasn’t nearly close enough to touch. The growl turned into a snarl and Harry caught a glimpse of yellow teeth. Harry stopped moving, never taking his eyes off the man’s face. Then the man leapt at him, giving out an unearthly howl. Harry staggered back, although the chains stopped the man before he even got close. The collar yanked at his neck and he was pulled to the ground, gasping for breath.

Harry heard cruel laughter behind him.

“Might listen to me in future, eh?” said the man who’d warned Harry about the werewolf.

Harry slunk back to his mattress and stared at the wall.

\--

The nights were dark but never silent. There was always the sound of the inmates shifting restlessly, the rattling of chains, moaning, crying and sometimes screaming. Harry slept in fits and starts, waking frequently in the night and lying there listening to the noises.

He knew something was wrong before he realised why. He held his breath to try and catch a sound, then heard breathing close to him - far too close to be either of his neighbours. And then someone grabbed him from behind and Harry found himself with an arm against his throat and someone’s beard tickling his ear. Harry didn’t even bother to make a noise. It wasn’t like anyone would respond.

A face moved close to his.

“So, Mr Harry Potter.”

Harry said nothing.

“Trying to worm your way into our territory, are you?”

“What?”

The word escaped him before he realised. He had no idea what the man was on about. The man behind him gave a jerk, tightening the arm against his throat.

“Sucking up to Healer Taylor. Doing favours. Doing little jobs for him to get stuff. That’s ours.”

Harry said nothing. It was just bizarre, fighting over who had the right to do favours for the healer.

“This ward is ours,” the man continued. “If you want something, you do the favour for us.”

“I just wanted my glasses, that’s all,” Harry replied in a small voice. He was vaguely aware that he had once been the sort of person who would have stood up to these bullies, that he’d have been defiant and given as good as he’d got. Harry wondered where that boy had gone.

A hand hit his cheek.

“You want anything, you come to us,” the man hissed, his breath in Harry’s face.

Before Harry could reply, he heard a yell. A shape launched itself against the man who had hit Harry, crashing the man to the ground. There was more yelling - it sounded like deranged nonsense until Harry realised it was the man with no teeth and damaged hands. The man pulled himself up and turned to Harry - or more correctly, the man whose arm was held to Harry’s neck. The toothless mouth was muttering and the eyes burned with rage. Even though his hands were useless, Harry felt intimidated and clearly the man who was holding Harry felt that way, too. He released Harry and stepped backwards, hands held placatingly in front of him. But Harry’s defender was not to be pacified, and he launched himself against the other man, shoulder hitting his chest and crashing them both into the wall.

When the men who had attacked Harry had slunk away, the toothless man had smiled his gummy grin again and touched Harry on the shoulder with his twisted hand. Then he drew the hand to his own chest.

“Gregor,” he said, tapping his hand against his chest.

Harry stared at him, silent, as the man repeated himself. Then Harry reached his hand across and touched the man’s arm.

“Gregor,” he said, then drew his hand to his own chest. “Harry.”

“Harry,” Gregor repeated.

Harry had made his first friend in Ward Two.

\--

Harry knew something was going on in the ward. He couldn’t figure out exactly what it was, but everyone seemed tense. Gregor was on edge, pacing and muttering. The man who’d grabbed Harry’s ankle to warn him about the werewolf was visibly nervous. He kept glancing at the dark corner and biting at his lip. Even the werewolf-man seemed nervous, tugging at his chains and whimpering.

As the afternoon wore on, both Taylor and MacNair moved over to the werewolf’s corner. He snapped and snarled at them a little, but after a couple of firm kicks he just cowered. Taylor checked all the restraints and MacNair stood watching, before checking them himself. Then Harry knew. It was the full moon.

After checking the werewolf, the two healers made for the door. MacNair didn’t even bother to stop and kick anyone on the way out.

“Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” MacNair said, before the healers left the ward.

When the full moon began to rise, the screaming began. Even in a man’s body, the werewolf sounded inhuman. As he transformed, the sounds only got worse. The screaming became a howling before fading to a choked whimper as the wolf lay panting on the floor, neck strained against the collar.

Harry watched from a distance, remembering the one other time he’d seen a transformed werewolf. He felt ill, remembering the consequences of that night. Peter had escaped, Sirius had nearly been kissed by the Dementors, Harry had cast his Patronus and… Harry gave a sigh. Once more, his life had been saved by Professor Snape. He felt the crushing guilt in his chest and could barely breathe.

The night progressed with alternating howling and whimpering by the wolf. Harry struggled to remember where he was, as images of that night at the Shrieking Shack changed to another image from the Shrieking Shack and he remembered Snape’s death. Then he was in the Department of Mysteries, seeing another death he blamed himself for. He remembered how Professor Lupin had held him as he screamed and struggled to follow Sirius. The memory was so vivid, he could feel the strong arms. Then he smelled rotten breath and realised he was still in the ward. Gregor had crawled onto the mattress beside him and had thrown one arm around him. Harry wasn’t sure whether it was for Harry’s comfort or Gregor’s.

The dawn came with howling that turned back into screaming, then faded into faint crying. Harry could feel the tension in the ward evaporate. Gregor quietly slipped from his bed, several men began to snore, and one or two got up and began moving around.

Harry forced himself to rise. He remembered his teacher - later his friend - and wondered how the werewolf would be.

Harry crouched a safe distance from the werewolf and watched. He was lying on his side, face to the wall, and all Harry could really see was his back and buttocks. He was so thin that Harry could see every one of his vertebrae and ribs. He looked fragile. It was hard to believe he was dangerous.

Harry moved closer.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

He knew the werewolf wouldn’t understand, but he hoped a kind voice might get a response.

“Sir?”

Harry stepped close enough to see that the man’s arms and face were covered with scratches. One wound on his arm was more serious, although it looked like it had mostly stopped bleeding, and one scratch on his face had also bled a lot. The man had also been sick, and Harry dreaded to think what lying in vomit with open wound would do.

“Sir?” Harry said, cautiously reaching out a hand to touch the man’s shoulder. “Sir, if you could just move a little, I could clean you up a bit.”

The man growled, but apparently lacked the strength to resist when Harry rolled him onto his back. His lips were drawn back in a snarl and the yellow eyes stared at Harry, but it was the eyebrow that drew Harry’s attention - or rather the scar the ran through the middle of the eyebrow. There was another across the bridge of his nose and one scar on each cheek. Harry felt his insides go cold. How likely was it that another werewolf had the exact same scars?

With a tentative hand, Harry braved the teeth and touched the beard just below his lips. Yes, there it was, a little patch of skin where the hair didn’t grow, a scar running from his lower lip.

“Professor,” he breathed. “Remus.”

The yellow eyes stared back with no sign of recognition.

\--

It took several full moons, but Remus slowly began to see Harry as less of a threat. First, he began to accept the small titbits of food Harry brought him. Then he began to tolerate Harry giving him water to drink and tending his wounds after his transformation. Eventually, he tolerated Harry cleaning him up after meals. However he was still unpredictable, and sudden movements and noises upset him. He’d bitten Harry on more than one occasion, but had never broken the skin.

Harry approached Remus cautiously, carrying one of his prized possessions, a small pair of slightly blunt scissors. Harry had had to clean up rather a lot of basins of excrement to get them, but it was worth it. He now wore a neat, short beard and his hair no longer fell in his face. Gregor looked quite normal now his matted hair and waist-length beard were trimmed short, as long as he kept his mouth closed. Several of the other inmates had appreciated haircuts as well.

Remus watched Harry approach with yellow eyes. Harry had given up any hope of seeing humanity in those eyes, but the lip no longer twisted into a snarl as Harry moved close.

“Hello, Remus, how are you feeling today?”

Remus tilted his head slightly, listening to Harry’s voice.

“I was wondering if you might like a bit of a haircut, Remus. Maybe a trim of your beard as well? It might make it a bit easier to keep clean.”

Harry crouched down beside him and reached out his hand. Remus sniffed him and gave a cautious lick. Harry ran his hand across Remus’s head and down the back of his neck. Then he brought out the scissors and offered them for Remus to sniff. Then he slid them around the back of Remus’s neck and snipped off a small amount of hair.

When Remus didn’t react, Harry continued to trim the shaggy hair, before moving cautiously to Remus’s face. Again, the werewolf didn’t react. His mouth was slightly open and eyes half closed, and he seemed to be enjoying Harry’s attention. Harry moved his hands cautiously as he got closer to the sharp teeth. Remus stilled and Harry knew he’d asked enough, withdrawing his hands and the scissors.

As Harry took a step back to admire his handiwork, he heard the ward door open. Quickly, he slipped the scissors into the waistband of his trousers. MacNair must have realised that someone had scissors, but if he didn’t see them, he probably wouldn’t actually go looking for them.

“Potter!” MacNair yelled.

Harry looked at him, uncertain how to react.

“Get up here, you useless runt. You have a visitor.”

A visitor? Nobody had visitors.

MacNair strode over and grabbed Harry by the hair.

“Get on with you,” he said, dragging Harry to his feet. “Don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”

\--

“Hermione!”

Harry threw his arms around his friend, forgetting that he must look awful and smell a lot worse.

“Harry, thank goodness. I was so worried. I can’t believe I’ve finally found you.”

He clung to Hermione, shaking and unable to think of anything to say.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Hermione disengaged herself from Harry’s arms and sat him down on a battered chair. She sat down on another chair beside him.

“How are you doing, Harry?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. It was a simple question, but he didn’t have a simple answer.

“I’m better for seeing you, Hermione.”

She nodded.

“They told me that you were dead, but I knew that couldn’t be right. They tried to tell me you’d crashed your broomstick, flying when drinking. I didn’t believe it though.”

Harry stared at her in confusion.

“Who?”

“The Weasleys. Well, I think it was Arthur and Molly, mostly. But Ginny definitely knew. I think they all knew. Lied through their teeth to everyone. Even me.”

Harry suddenly felt cold. He knew what pureblood families did with people who had mental illnesses. He knew what had happened to Gideon. But, until that moment, he’d tried to tell himself that it was different with him - maybe some sort of mistake. Or at least, he’d tried to tell himself, surely Ginny and Ron didn’t know.

“How did you find me?”

“I kept asking. I could see Ron knew something but he wouldn’t tell me. So I gave him Veritaserum.”

Harry gaped.

“I can’t believe they did this to you. Just locked you up and left you. It’s barbaric. There are plenty of treatment options in the Muggle world. I’ve been talking to a psychologist. As soon as I can get you out of here, I’ll take you to see him. We’ll get this sorted out, Harry.”

Harry nodded. He could barely grasp what Hermione was saying. He hadn’t had a conversation in months. The only one who really spoke to him was Gregor.

“Professor Lupin is here,” he said.

It was Hermione’s turn to gape.

“But… but he died. We went to his funeral.”

“I was supposed to be dead, too.”

Hermione nodded sadly.

“How is he?”

Harry paused, wondering what to say.

“He’s not himself. He’s got the mind of the werewolf all the time. He doesn’t know he’s human at all.”

Hermione’s face fell.

“Oh,” she said. Then she set her jaw slightly.

“I’m working on getting you out of here, Harry. It may take a little longer, but I’m sure I can do it.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t feel quite the optimism Hermione was showing.

MacNair returned to the room within a few minutes.

“Right, that’s enough. Time to go now.”

“I’ll be back, Harry.”

“This isn’t Bedlam,” MacNair snapped. “We don’t allow a parade of visitors to stare at our inmates as if they are in a zoo. You are lucky to have got in here at all.”

He gripped her shoulder and marched her out the door. Harry slumped back into the chair listening to the retreating footsteps. And then, so distantly his ears might just have been deceiving him, he heard MacNair’s voice.

“ _Obliviate_ ,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dobro" means "good" in a number of languages in Eastern Europe.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like your fics dark, you can skip the epilogue. But if you are like me and need your endings a bit happier, then here you go...

It was another year before Hermione found Harry again. This time she came armed with memory protection charms and escaped without being Obliviated. But it still took another two years of fighting with the Ministry to get Harry freed.

It took a lot longer to get the others out, but Hermione made it her mission. In the end, it took five years, and the help of a number of prominent muggleborn wizards, to get the asylum closed and the inmates released.

At least a dozen of the inmates were found to be suffering from various forms of age-related dementia and were relocated to aged-care facilities. A dozen more had serious-enough mental illnesses to be admitted to Muggle mental hospitals. Gregor was returned to Belarus, where his family was delighted to discover he was still alive. He was the only one to be welcomed home.

Gideon was not welcomed back into the family fold. He joined Harry in a run-down farmhouse in Cumbria. Other former inmates joined them too, including Regulus, who returned to following Harry around and sitting at his feet.

Dosed with copious quantities of wolfsbane, Remus was freed from his chains. There was no evidence that he knew who he was or even that he was human, but his behaviour was becoming slightly more civilised. Or at least he whined at the door when he wanted to go to the toilet.

“Do you think he’ll get his mind back, Hermione?”

“I… I want to believe he will, Harry, I really do.”

Hermione sat on one of the sofas with Remus beside her, curled up as if he were a dog.

“I don’t hold much hope, though. I’ve been reading about it, and there’s never been a case where a werewolf has come back from this state.”

Harry nodded sadly.

“Still,” Hermione said, “I never thought I’d get you back. First, I could see how badly you were suffering and I couldn’t help you. And then you were supposedly dead. And look at you now, Harry. You’re ok.”

Harry sat thoughtfully for a moment and then gave Hermione a small smile. She was right. He was ok.


End file.
